by Bill Noel
Cindy shook her head. “Either that or she’s from another planet. And, speaking of being from another planet, that leads me to the second thing I wanted to talk to you about, your buddy Dude.”
The deli clerk handed me my panini, I paid, and followed Cindy outside to her city-owned truck. Charles had often joked that Dude emigrated to earth from another planet, a planet where complete sentences were frowned upon and had a different meaning than they do on earth. This was one of the few times Cindy agreed with Charles.
“What about him?”
“He began calling and pestering me this afternoon about the shorter, more articulate version of him that’s missing.”
“Dude called you about Pluto?”
“Eventually. Dude first called Mayor Newman, Councilmember Salmon, the preacher at the Baptist Church, Preacher Burl, and then me about his missing canine. Mayor Newman called me and rearranged the priorities of my department from catching bad guys, stopping speeders, and ticketing those law-breaking vacationers who have the audacity to park with a tire or two touching the pavement on our streets. My priority now is finding one lost Australian Terrier. To paraphrase the words of our fine citizen, Dude be full o clout.”
I smiled and asked if she’s had any luck.
“As much as we’ve had at learning Joy’s identity. Dude told me that you and Charles were the first on the scene of the canine escape. I was going to call to ask if Dude said anything that made you think that Pluto’s disappearance was anything other than the critter wanting to get away from Dude to maintain his sanity. Believe it or not, there are times that I don’t fully understand what Dude’s talking about. You spend more time with him and other oddball characters than I do, so I figured you might understand him better.”
I understood Dude better than I understood thermodynamics although not much better.
“Cindy, Dude’s upset.”
“Duh.”
“Pluto means everything to him. Dude doesn’t have many close friends and Pluto is probably his best. He was clueless about how Pluto escaped. I didn’t see anything that made me think it was anything other than the dog scampering out the back door that was left ajar. Dude had taken the trash out that way before going to church. Most of the time he leaves by the front door since his car’s parked in the front yard. He was carrying trash, so it would’ve been easy for him to not shut the door all the way.”
“That’s what I thought but wanted your take. When I was there, the poor boy was near tears. My experience with dogs, and with Larry, is that once hunger sets in, they find their way home. Worry not, all my patrol vehicles are out scouring the island for one missing Australian Terrier. If they happen to stumble across a murder in progress, they may stop, unless they’re chasing Pluto. And speaking of dogs, Larry, and hunger, I’d better get home with a pizza before he calls the mayor on me.”
I wished her luck, headed home, used my one culinary skill, and microwaved the panini that’d turned cold while I was talking to Cindy. I also poured a glass of Cabernet, and wondered who Joy was, and to a lesser extent, where Pluto was.
12
Christmas was less than a week away although you could hardly tell it from looking at my house, inside or out. I had hooked a ten-year-old, dusty artificial wreath I bought at a yard sale for seventy-five cents on the front door and inside my decorating was a ceramic Dickens Village Victoria Station setting on a table in the living room. Other than the wreath, the Station was the only item I brought from Kentucky that I associated with Christmas. I’d thought of adding more but rationalized that there was no need since I seldom had anyone to the house and considered the party at Cal’s Country Bar and Burgers my prime event on Christmas Day. Looking at the Victoria Station reminded me that it’d been a couple of weeks since I’d talked to Cal, besides a burger sounded good. During the off-season, there was less than a fifty-fifty chance that Cal’s would be open for lunch or early beer drinking. I had nothing better to do, so I took a chance and drove the short distance since the outside temperature was near freezing.
The front door was locked. If I wanted food my gamble hadn’t paid off, but there was still a chance Cal was inside. I went to the side door and had better luck. The jukebox was playing a Hank Williams Sr. classic, and Cal, who could double as an older, much older, version of Hank, was singing along and sliding a table to the center of the room. My friend was seventy-three-years-old, six-foot-three, razor thin with a spine that curved forward from leaning down to a microphone and living for decades out of the back seat of his car. His long, gray hair inched out from around a Stetson that had travelled with him for forty plus years. I smiled when I saw a strand of battery-operated LED lights strung around the crown, his seasonal addition to the hat. Cal wore a black T-shirt instead of his rhinestone covered white coat he wore when performing. Ho, Ho, Ho! was in glittery, silver paint on the front of the T-shirt. His holiday-inspired attire also included bright-red slacks and red tennis shoes. The bar, like Cal, was in a marginal state of repair, yet with its beat-up tables and chairs, indoor/outdoor carpet covered floor, and antique Wurlitzer jukebox, the owner swore it was “the perfect country music bar.” Cal would know since he travelled the South for more than four decades singing at any venue that would have him.
Cal saw me in the doorway. He tipped his Stetson my direction, and said, “Halleluiah! My Christmas wish is answered. An elf has come to help this old codger.”
And, all I wanted was a hamburger.
“Help with what?”
He waved his hand around the room. “I’m running late finishing party decorations. It’s getting harder and harder each year for me to get everything done. My energy level ain’t what it used to be.”
I followed his gaze and saw three—yes, three—seven-foot-tall artificial Christmas trees in the room. Their multiple strands of colorful lights matched the strands Cal had attached to each non-moving vertical surface, and more were hanging from the ceiling. Unless Santa was shoveling snow in front of the room while Mrs. Claus was feeding the reindeer, I couldn’t imagine how much more could be done to make the bar Christmas-party ready.
“What can I do?”
He pointed to the corner near the front door. “Look over there. There’s a wide-open space begging for a Christmas tree.”
The corner’s apparent cry for help was lost on the man who had a grand total of zero Christmas trees in his house. What wasn’t lost on me was Cal’s childlike enthusiasm for the holiday and his desire to make his bar reflect his glee.
“Do you have a tree?”
His smile was as wide as his face. “Sure do, and now I have an elf to help put it up.”
Not only did he have a tree, he had a six-foot ladder, and enough strands of lights to humiliate the tree in Times Square. As if on cue, Gene Autry’s version of “Frosty the Snowman” began on the jukebox. “Frosty” was one of many Christmas songs Cal added each December.
During the lull between Gene Autry’s singing and Burl Ives, the singer, not the preacher, telling us about “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” Cal said, “Have you and Charles found Pluto?”
“How do you know about Pluto?”
He handed me the strand of lights to hang around the back of the tree. “Let’s see. It could’ve been when Officer Spencer came in last night and said he’d driven around the island 739 times looking for the dog or could’ve been when Councilmember Salmon stopped by for a brew and said that his wife made him ride around looking. No, I got it, it was when the Dudester charged in the door whistling and yelling, ‘Yo, Pluto, you be here?’”
I laughed, and said, “The word’s out.”
“A woeful understatement, my friend,” Cal said, and pulled a chair to the front of the tree and lowered his body in it.
“What makes you think Charles or I may’ve found Pluto?”
He pointed to a nearby chair. “Take a load off.”
We weren’t finished with the tree, but Cal was breathing heavily and needed to rest. I pulled
the chair close to his and sat.
“Dude said the police would do their best to find the missing family member, but he had more confidence that you and especially Charles would find him since your buddy was a professional detective.”
“He said all that?”
“Not those words, but that’s my interpretation of what he was trying to say.”
“To my knowledge, neither Charles nor anyone else has found Pluto. I haven’t talked to Dude today, so the pup might be safe and cuddled up to his master.”
Cal removed his Stetson and set it on the floor beside the chair. “Then let me ask you this,” he said. “Figured out who that Joy gal is that you and Miss Barb found surfin’ at the County Park?”
“How do you know about Joy?”
“I hope you don’t want me to name everyone who told me about her? There’ve been a dozen or so guys and gals in here talking about it.”
“What’ve you heard?”
“About you finding her? About where she’s staying? Or, about what happened to her memory?”
“All of them.”
He told me what he knew about Barb and me finding her, and where she was staying. He was one-hundred percent accurate. When it came to what happened to her memory, the percent dropped drastically. The consensus was that she’d been clobbered with a steel pipe and left on the beach. Theories about who clobbered her included her husband, someone robbing her, the jealous wife of someone who was cheating with Joy, and an alien who’d parked his/her/it’s spaceship in the County Park because of its wide-open space. Cal said he didn’t put much faith in the alien option. Unfortunately, the accuracy of where she was staying was dead on. That shoots the idea that if someone is after her, the fewer people who knew where she was the better.
He exhausted everything he knew about Joy and was rejuvenated and anxious to finish decorating the tree. Frank Sinatra was singing “Jingle Bells,” as Cal pushed himself out of the chair and pointed for me to get back on the ladder so he could give me the final strand of lights.
“Chris,” he said as I wrapped the lights around the top of the tree, “remember when I told you why my Christmas party was so important?”
“Wasn’t it three years ago when you had the first one?”
“Four.”
“Time flies. You said it was because you’d spent many Christmases on the road and most of those years you didn’t have anywhere to go to celebrate the holiday. You’d met others in the same boat.”
“Yeah, I told myself that if I ever had a place where I could throw a party for everyone who wanted to come, regardless if they had a family, were homeless, had any money, whatever, that I’d do it.” He smiled and pointed to each tree. “Being able to do this makes me happier than anything I do all year. People are saying this’ll be the biggest.”
I’d been to most of his Christmas parties and the number attending had increased dramatically.
The sound of Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas” filled the room.
Cal hooked a large ornament on the tree and pointed to the jukebox. “My favorite Christmas song.”
He’d told me that last year. I was thinking how strange it was that I’d remembered that bit of trivia when I couldn’t remember what I had for lunch two days ago.
He interrupted my thought when he said, “I have three versions on the jukebox: Bing, Eddy Arnold, and Loretta Lynn.” He hesitated, glanced at the new tree, and then at the jukebox, and joined Bing singing, “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know.” He turned to me. “Chris, think about how bad it’ll be for poor Joy on Sunday. She won’t be able to remember anything about the ones she used to know. Christmases with friends, with families, maybe with children. How lonely and sad must that be?”
I’d thought about her lack of memory about family and friends but hadn’t thought of it in relation to Christmas. “You’re right.”
“Chris, ain’t nothing I can do about her past and those memories. If you can get her to the party, we’ll give her a Christmas she’ll remember for a long time.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
13
I left my car at Cal’s and walked two blocks to the surf shop to see if Dude’s wayward child had returned. The surf shop, with its name in all lower case for reasons known only to Dude, was a goldmine during vacation season. In the winter, its owner spent days in the Lost Dog Cafe drinking tea and bemoaning how bad business was. He seldom got sympathy from the less-successful business owners.
To my chagrin, I was met by Stephon instead of Dude. Stephon was rude and snarky. I’d learned to tolerate his condescending attitude, and he tolerated me to the point that he didn’t become hostile when he saw me. Dude kept him on the payroll because he was a surfer and magically meshed with the store’s more offbeat customers.
“Good afternoon, Stephon,” I said in the most civil tone I could muster. “Is Dude around?”
The clerk was rearranging a rack of wetsuits and wasn’t going to let my arrival distract him. “No.”
“Is he at the Lost Dog Cafe?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
This was one of my more civil conversations with Stephon, so I decided to quit while I was ahead.
“Thanks.”
I turned to leave, and was surprised to hear, “He’s looking for Pluto.”
I stopped and looked at the employee who’d turned from the wetsuits and was staring at me. I motioned for him to continue.
“I’ve never seen boss man so upset. I don’t know why, but he likes you. Maybe you can try to find him and help him search. Don’t tell him I said this.” He looked around and lowered his voice like he was about to tell me the combination to Dude’s safe. “You could put your arm around the boss man and say it’ll be okay. I would, except you may not know this, but I’m not much at warm and fuzzy. When you asked if I knew where he was, I said no because I don’t. Oh yeah, one more thing, when you find him, don’t say anything about the Lost Dog Cafe. He might start whimpering if he hears the words lost dog. He’s walking the streets. Please help him.”
Where was my recorder when I needed it? I said I would and heard two words I didn’t know were in Stephon’s vocabulary. “Thank you.”
The odds on me finding Dude if I walked would be near zero and the temperature felt nearly that cold, so I returned to Cal’s and got the car and started my canvas of the island. I was surprised that Pluto hadn’t ventured home on his own. I started on Dude’s street and drove a grid for fifteen minutes. I saw two couples walking dogs and stopped to ask if they’d seen Dude or a lost Australian Terrier. Each said they hadn’t seen Pluto but had talked to Dude who stopped them and asked if they’d seen his missing buddy.
I was about to give up my search when I spotted the surf shop owner in front of Hope House talking with Preacher Burl. I stopped and joined them. Dude wore a stoplight-red unzipped parka revealing his tie-dye T-shirt with a peace symbol on the front, jeans with a rip in each knee, red driving gloves, and hiking boots. He held the leash with the rhinestone-studded collar dangling Pluto-less. He looked more like he was hiking the Appalachian Trail than looking for his pet. He also wore a frown.
“No luck,” I said.
Dude shook his head and Burl patted him on the back and said, “We’re putting together a search party to help Brother Dude. Brother Bernard and Sister Joy are robing themselves in heavier clothing and Sister Rebekah should arrive any minute. She had to wait for someone to relieve her at Black Magic.” Burl held up his phone. “I’m coordinating the search.”
“Chrisster, my poor baby could be frozen like a popsicle.”
The temperature was well above freezing although it didn’t feel it, so I doubted Pluto could have frozen, but it wouldn’t do any good to share that observation.
Joy and Bernard joined us, and Burl asked if I was going to help search. Dude looked at me with sad eyes, so I said, “Of course.”
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br /> Burl said, “Okay, here’s the plan. Brother Bernard, you know the island pretty well.” Burl pointed east. “Why don’t you head off that way? Brother Dude, why don’t you go toward town and check behind shops and restaurants? Pluto should be hungry and there are plenty of places where he could root in the trash for food.”
Bernard said, “Dude, if you want, I can tell you the best trash cans for food.”
Bernard was talking from experience after having been homeless for many months and searching for food and warmth wherever possible.
Dude said, “Okeydokey.”
“Sister Joy, you’re new here so why don’t you go with Brother Chris? That way you’ll learn more about the island and will help Chris look while he focuses on driving.”
Joy glanced at me, and I said, “Good idea.”
“Good,” Burl said. “When Sister Rebekah gets here, I’ll recommend that she looks west of Center Street.”
Joy was quiet the first few minutes or our search. The coat Burl found for her was several sizes too large and she had a challenging time getting comfortable in the seat with the seatbelt and bulky overgarment. She finally took it off and threw it in the backseat. I carried the conversation and tried to point out some sites and homes where I knew the residents.
“Chris,” she finally said, “I don’t know who my friends were before, well, you know.”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know if I have a family.”
“I understand.”
“Let me tell you what I do know. Preacher Burl and the others in the house have been fantastic. They’re from diverse backgrounds. They’ve had ups and downs, mostly downs, I’m saddened to learn. Despite that, they’ve been wonderful. They seem to truly care. I hope that if, no, when, I regain my memory, my past has that many good people in it.”
“I do too.”
The heater was pumping out hot air full-blast, but she was shivering. I didn’t think it was because she was cold since she’d removed the coat.